


they all want to love the cause

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Interrogation, Not Even Hux, Post-War, mild violence, negotiation, relentless cold, whiffs of Leia/Hux from Hux's shrivelled black heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 09:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23848984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Hux finishes work. He has some visitors.
Relationships: Armitage Hux & Leia Organa
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: May the 4th Be With You Star Wars Fanworks Exchange 2020





	they all want to love the cause

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> beta by [X], tysm <3

> And they all want to love the cause  
>  They all need to be the cause  
>  They all want to dream a cause  
>  They all need to fuck the cause — Broken Social Scene, [Cause = Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GikWha5TC94)

When the work shift is over, he has to concentrate to straighten out his fingers. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stuffs his hands into his armpits and hunches against the wind.

Outside the facility, the light is gray and low. It snowed earlier, during the midday meal, but most of it has blown away by now. The snow's little more than tiny pellets, hard as ammunition; when the wind catches it, it spins dizzily, skittering across the wide stone paths between the refinery and the dining hall.

The hulking Berchestian who works opposite him claps Hux on the shoulder as he passes and shares his favorite (only) joke. Hux mouths along: "Cheer up, brother! Could be Hoth."

"Hoth would be preferable," Hux mutters, though the Berchestian is out of hearing range. On Hoth, all he'd need to do would be to take a single wrong turn off the paths. Three, four steps in the wrong direction would put a man in the snow, irretrievably lost.

Here on Sniwan, though, it is never quite cold enough to be a true danger. Just cold enough, always and persistently, to be impossible to get comfortable. The wind cuts through everything, from the masonry of the buildings to the seams and cheap synth fabric of the clothes he wears.

Hux is keeping track of each and every offense, from his much-mended trousers to the sorry state of discipline in the collective, from the repulsive quality of the food to the lack of health and safety precautions.

He finds it impossible to wield the tools with any sort of precision while wearing gloves. Working bare-handed, however, exposes him to the cold. His skin is dry, deadly-dusty pale, the knuckles cracked pink and sore. He has new blisters over old calluses, chapped lips, and a recurring chilblain at the tip of his nose. Weekly baths are tortuous affairs; the water steams in the cold air, but when he slips inside, the actual temperature is colder than his own spit.

In the dining hall, the Berchestian waves at him and points to a narrow gap on the bench, in which he apparently expects Hux to sit and dine. Hux has no idea why this creature believes so fervently that they are friends. Familiarity and co-habitation of space hardly make for friendship. At best, they dull the sharpest edges of contempt, or, at least, so he has heard. It never worked that way for him.

"I do hope it's slimy tubers in an insipid broth," Hux says to no one in particular while his portion is dispensed by the creaking cafeteria droid. The stew is extruded into his narrow bowl with an unsettling _squelch_. 

"Brendol!" The admin at the entrance calls him over, using his entirely-stupid cover name. "Got you a visitor."

"That's droll," Hux replies. "I believe that, upon reflection, you'll agree that no one in the galaxy will be coming to visit me. Ever."

Self-pity keeps him (relatively) warm at night.

"And yet," Leia Organa says from behind the guard. She has her arm through Calrissian's and the two of them regard Hux calmly. "Here we are."

"You received my communiqués, good," Hux says. 

They are in disguise, he assumes, though it seems a slapdash affair. For both of them, "disguise" appears to mean "remove the most garish and attention-grabbing pieces". Calrissian's cloak is a black pelt wonder. Up close, the fur is sleek, catching the light at odd angles, but from a few steps back, it looks merely serviceable.

As for the princess, she —.

"In here," she says, standing aside so Hux will enter first.

"You find it difficult to dress down," he says as he does so. The tiny room behind the kitchens is actually nearly _warm_ , though overwhelmed by the noise from the cooks. The odious Dameron, all tousled forelock and over-tight trousers whiskering at the groin, is inside, hand on his blaster.

"You," Hux says.

Dameron blows him a kiss. So relentlessly tacky.

As Leia takes her seat, she glances at Calrissian, who laughs at Hux's remark. "My personal style challenges are hardly —"

"Merely an observation," Hux says and waves his hand dismissively. "That it would be difficult, to say the least, for you to look drab. Forgettable."

"I see," Leia says. He imagines, briefly, what she was like as a very young woman. Not the hectoring fanatic from holo-vids, but the round-cheeked girl who flirted as well as she argued. There are _tales_ , to be sure. And Hux was always the most thorough of researchers.

Calrissian leans against the closed door, arms loosely crossed. Is he actually supposed to be her bodyguard? He's thirty years older than she! Moreover, there was never the slightest indication that Leia could not handle herself, and quite impressively, in hand-to-hand.

So Calrissian and Dameron are flanking him, though there is no path out for Hux except through the door. They're posturing, stroking their blasters and shuffling their feet. 

They would, he knows, do anything for her. That sort of dedication is invaluable, but it can also be a brittle thing.

They're going to wait him out. He knows how this goes.

"You're not eating," Leia says.

So much for waiting him out. Hux looks down at the slop in his bowl, then back up to meet her eyes. "You'll have to excuse me. I find it difficult to swallow this pigwash without retching."

"Try me," she says and tilts her head.

"I'd rather get down to business."

"And what business is that?"

"You tell me," he says. "You're the ones who came all the way out here. I can't imagine it was out of sentiment?"

"Information," Dameron says, but Leia hushes him with a glance.

"You're not here officially," Hux says as he understands that fact. "Oh, my. Is this pleasure, then? Perhaps an elopement?"

"Nothing of the sort," she says.

"Good," he replies and sits back as if satisfied. He recrosses his legs and plucks at a loose thread along one seam. "You can do much better."

The corners of her lips deepen as she suppresses a smile. "Than whom? Which one?"

Hux shrugs, eyes sweeping from Calrissian to Dameron. "Both, either."

"Watch it," Dameron says, voice gruff.

"Oh, did I pique your inflamed machismo?" Hux turns to look at him. Dameron has his hands on his hips and chin jutted out. "You are making quite the display, aren't you?"

Dameron kicks the table leg. "You piece of —"

"Gentlemen," Leia says without raising her voice. "Feel free to scrap and bicker and compare phallus measurements later."

Hux bites the inside of his cheek.

"Sorry," Dameron says, gaze lowered, shoulders slumping. What a sad little specimen he is.

"No pleasure whatsoever in visiting your fallen opponent? You could tweak my frost-bitten nose, maybe take a few clumps of hair as a souvenir." He touches the back of his unbearably greasy hair. "It just falls out these days, you know. I blame the nutrition here, which is to say, its complete absence."

"If you ate your rations," Leia says with the impatient coaxing of a very tired caregiver, "you might enjoy some more nutrition."

"Princess," Hux says. Her expression tightens at the title, her eyes go flat, so he redoubles the formality. "Your Highness, I am a very tired, perpetually cold man. May we get right to business so that I can eat — alone — and fall into my bunk —"

"Poor guy," Dameron says mournfully and pulls a face at which Calrissian chuckles. "Life's pretty hard out here for a genocidaire, huh?"

Hux keeps his gaze on Leia. "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

"Cut the shit," she tells him. "That's the first thing."

He clucks his tongue. "Such crudity."

Leia rests her palms on the table before her. "Shall we try again, Armitage?"

For a fleeting moment, he wonders if she derives as much pleasure from using his first name as he does from using her title.

"Certainly," he replies. "I take it you received my communiqués?"

She nods. "I was briefed."

His face flushes, his sinuses burn. "That's outrageous! You didn't read them?"

"I imagine you had quite a lot to say about the conditions here? Interspersed with imprecations about politics, human rights, the unfairly neglected status of turncoats and informants?"

His jaw trembles with the effort to compose himself. At last, he manages to say, "I trusted that those messages were for your eyes only."

"I'm sure you did," she says. "Now, what can you tell us about the Order's capital flight plans?"

He crosses his arms. There were four to six proposals for the dispersal of Order assets and credits in the event of (temporary) defeat, but conflict among individual members of both the Supreme Council and the Knights of Ren meant that nothing was ever officially set in motion.

That isn't to say, of course, that individuals, including Hux himself, did not salt away what they could. Most of his own assets are now lost forever, transferred to a shell company under the aegis of Sienar-Jaemus Systems. In the treaties that ended the conflict, Sienar-Jaemus was dissolved, along with thirteen other weapons and technology manufacturers, its holdings sold off and the proceeds donated to refugee settlements.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hux says finally. "Whatever money you're chasing, I'm sure is in the pockets of some scruffy Knight of Ren, if not your own."

"We're not chasing money, friend," Calrissian puts in. "We need to know who handles what in the network."

"Have you tried asking Kylo Ren?" Hux asks. This is the subject best capable of eliciting reactions from these sad little idealists. Remind them of their greatest failure, play aloof and ignorant, then watch them moan and cry. "He _is_ , or was, Supreme Leader, Snoke's most beloved protégé. Surely —"

Calrissian scowls while the princess remains impassive. Dameron, predictably, kicks the table leg again. Soup spills from Hux's bowl over his hand.

"The capital networks," Leia says and waits.

"Did you use the information I gave you on the trooper acquisition program?"

"Acquisition!" Dameron nearly shouts; he turns and punches the wall.

"Please," Leia says to him. She draws a deep breath and addresses Hux. "That information on kidnapped toddlers was indeed quite helpful, yes. As were your outlines of the Final Order hierarchy and fleet details."

"Everything I've told you has been true and accurate," Hux reminds her.

"To an extent, yes," she says.

"Oh?"

"It has not, and never has been, remotely _complete_."

He could waste time quibbling over minutiae, but she is correct. They both know that.

"I want off this frozen rock," Hux says. "I don't want to ever see my own breath again." He holds up his hands. "Look at these blisters, Your Highness."

"Impressive," she says. "I daresay many people would be proud of earning those with hard work."

He bends his fingers slowly. His knuckles are swollen and the pain sits deep in the core of each bone. They grind as they move. "I'll be arthritic before the end of the year."

"You can leave any time you like," Dameron puts in, his tone nasty and brows beetled. "What's stopping you, Armie?"

Hux adjusts his posture. His gaze does not waver from Leia. "Better thermal undergarments, double rations, and a new, heavy quilt for my bunk."

Leia nods. "All right."

There are no regular flights to and from Sniwan. It is nowhere near any hyperlane, however minor. To get here, one must really want, or need, to make the journey. Though he is paid regularly, it is a pittance. Hux has very few credits with which to bribe anyone, were any of them amenable to bribes. All the administrative staff here are ex-Rebel and still as fervently dedicated to useless causes as ever. Their cause these days has merely switched to mining and refining sneg ore for galactic rebuilding efforts.

The negligible scale of what Hux wants and needs suddenly offends him. He has become little more than a creature, any brute animal, valuing his warmth and a full stomach. Where have refinement and elegance, the distinct pleasure of firm rule and dedicated execution gone? Whither _vision_? He might as well be the Berchestian, or even Dameron, nipping along at a stronger, more decisive person's heels, taking what comfort he can grab in her shadow.

"Is that all?" Leia asks him.

He is chilled to the bone, aching with numbness. His lips crack and sting when he tries to smile. "Spend the night with me? Heard so much about your generosity with your heart and bed and c—"

Dameron slams Hux's head into the table and holds it there, grinding the heel of his palm into Hux's temple. Calrissian is looming on the other side, saying something, but Hux cannot hear through the noise in his skull. His pulse, the pain, the roar of impact: all of it storms together and blots out, for far too short a moment, anything else. His nerves scream, taut and twanging; a warm, thick gush of blood flows from his nose. Blindly, he throws the bowl of soup, tries to stand, only for Dameron to smash him back down.

"Enough," the princess says. Her voice cuts through the haze and agony; he blinks blearily at her and grins, knowing his mouth is smeared with blood. "Let him go."

"Ma'am," Dameron says and Calrissian chimes in. "Leia —"

"We're finished here." She rises, then hesitates. "Consider your requests satisfied."

"You're too kind." He sneers, then hocks and spits phlegm threaded with blood. Dameron shakes him by the collar, then shoves him out of the way.

They depart, but Hux remains at the table, cheek against its surface and fist at his throbbing mouth and nose. The kitchens are quiet now, so the room is rapidly cooling. He can hear the pitter-patter of hard snow against the roof.


End file.
